


Entanglement

by OptimalSagacity



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Eventual Romance, M/M, Medical Torture, Multi, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Sticky, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:32:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8085118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OptimalSagacity/pseuds/OptimalSagacity
Summary: Vortex comes back heated after a battle, and seeks out another mech to burn off the charge with.

  Was meant to be a one shot but I had some ideas, so I'll see how they pan out. Hopefully they mesh together well.





	1. Chapter 1

The battle had gone well enough. The Autobots had been worn down, enough to convince them to retreat, and the Decepticons had bristled all the while, determined to show just how resilient they were after fighting for megacycles on end. It was fine, according to their glorious leader, because it hadn’t been their worst. So they had dragged their dirtied hides back through the earthen grit, frames encased in a congealing concoction of their own coolant, and their enemies’ energon. A sickening aroma if there ever was one, the lingering scent of aging energon clogged their olfactory sensors, and the majority of them looked forward to getting under the hot spray of the wash racks to rid of it. Most of them.

The rotary had sneered at the retreating backs of their enemies, his pointed denta bared in a mixture of uneasy triumph, and disappointment that it all had ended so abruptly when it had just been getting good for him. His systems had been warming before he had even stepped off the battle field, following his exhausted, and worn team back to base. Blast Off had given him a pointed look of blatant disapproval, one that he always gave the rotary when he projected too much through their gestalt bond. It didn’t dampen the copter’s excitement though, or the thrumming of his spark, feeding off of the adrenaline that often took megacycles to clear out.

“How are you so fragging charged after that? You’re covered in their fluids. What did you do, _kneel_ under their frames as it spilled out? Let me guess, you just couldn’t contain yourself. Again.” The shuttle growled out when the copter flicked his dampened rotors, keeping clear of Vortex’s twitching blades, which shed the energon that had accumulated on them. The shuttle didn’t ask how. Blast Off scorned those appendages which bobbed way-too-perkily with each stride.

“How are you not, Thrusters?” Vortex asked, sidling up next to his favorite shuttle-former. A warning growl rang out, but Vortex was well-acquainted with the mech. “Hah, very funny. A little energon doesn’t hurt any mech—I kill them off the same as you. We beat ‘em, and now we walk away proud— _soaked in the energon of our enemies_! It’s symbolic or some slag, you know Blasty? Although doesn’t look like you’re feeling it the way I am.”

Blast Off scoffed. “Symbolic my aft—you’re disgusting, you know that? What did you do to get _that_ kind of coverage? I mean honest to Primus, its jammed into your vents! **Unnecessary** is what it is.”

“Ouch.” Vortex pouted in mock hurt, but then allowed his glossa to loll from between his pointed denta. “Such a _killjoy_ …” The shuttle was no fun. But what did he expect? No one held his burning lust for energon—his growing, and ever expanding appreciation for things that were, by most mechs, labeled ‘macabre’.

That brought him to where he was now, on the floor of his berthroom, eyeing the energon slicking his servos with utmost interest. His visor brightened with the fluttering he felt inside his fuel tanks, thinking back on the moment in which he took one of the Autobot scouts and broke the gun right out of his servo (just like that, curling his own clawed digits over that mech’s wrist and _snap_ ). A little shiver ran up his back strut at that, climbing all the way up his neck cables. _Good memory,_ his processor provided. Energon had proven immensely interesting in the past, and had not failed to fascinate him yet. Although he was fully aware that most mechs didn’t think such a substance should be a point of focus, the copter couldn’t quite quell his desire for the curious substance.

‘ _It’s against the nature of the **majority** of mechs to play in their own life essence_ ’ Blast Off had observed after the last battle as Vortex had unabashedly run his glistening clawed digits through his own slowly congealing energon seeping from one of the battle wounds littering his frame. ‘ _Apparently you are not one of them._ ’ With that the shuttle had walked off, leaving the rotary to watch his back plates as he retreated. Vortex had provided a slicked digit, stooping to a physical human expletive to defend his right to be an individual. Blast Off was inclined always to point out the weird, the ugly, along with the infinite errors in the rotary’s code. Vortex didn’t usually point out the prudishness of the shuttle, but he sure was tempted to at those times especially, when his barely restrained biting attitude surfaced.

_‘Most mechs can shove it right up their port. They’re missing out!’_

There was undoubtedly something wrong with him, but Vortex couldn’t bring himself to care. He had taken notice stellar cycles back, when in Cybertron he began developing a fascination for pain—an appreciation even. Somewhere in his processor developed an obsession for the very thing so many mechs in society steered away from. His first torture victim had rightfully deserved it, and the next guests he hung up were questionably innocent. It didn’t matter. He fed off of the energy, fed off of the fear that was incited by him alone, and bathed in the litany of pleas that would never be graced on any other mech’s audials. Many of his victims had wretched when they witnessed the torrents of blue fluid escaping their bound frames. Some shut down at the very realization that they were bleeding out. The occasional few screamed until they went hoarse.

Vortex didn’t understand why they didn’t see it his way. What was wrong with having such a fascination? After all, Ons didn’t seem to mind his uncanny pastimes. He let Vortex play as long as he wanted, soaking up all there was to be had in an enemy’s exploitation before casting them aside to find another when they were used to their full potential. They were deserving of the treatment. They should be thankful they were delivered to such a dutiful copter, who made sure they were appreciated in their death as they might not have been in their lifetime. Vortex was not a fool. Pain was a sensation that could very well overwhelm the processor if implemented in high doses. But pain was only temporary, and not all as bad as the majority of mechs made it out to be. In fact, it could be seen as a gift sensation, searing through the systems undeterred, reminding mechs that they were _alive_ , and to live, pain was necessary.

Vortex sauntered into his washroom, taking his time. Thrusters didn’t want to see him anyhow—he’d established that when he came back, immediately trailing after the shuttle, and flaunting his blades in a nice, obvious invitation—only to have the door slammed in his faceplates, and a demand that he find another mech to frag off the charge with.

Pouting didn’t work with Blast Off, but the ever persistent copter he had attempted anyhow, knocking at the reinforced door that he didn’t know the code to (anymore). He had known about it until the shuttle had changed it—again. ‘ _Thrusters? Come on. Please?_ ’ he had pleaded, but the grunt behind the door told him he was getting nowhere.

‘No. I don’t want that mess in here, and I don’t want _you_ in here either. Go find another mech to bother.’

‘Come on, I can make it good for you! You won’t even have to tie my servos—even though that is a plus…but I’ll be good, promise! **Thrusters** …Ons is busy and you know what happens when boss is interrupted!’ On second thought, that didn’t sound like an awful idea, considering their leader could really lay it into a mech when he was pushed far enough. Storing that useful information into the back of his CPU, he focused on the task at his servos. ‘Thrusters?’

‘Exactly, Onslaught has the kind of thing you like—absolutely no patience, and a tendency for violence when he’s pissed. Maybe he’ll be willing to deal with you tonight. You should definitely go try.’

‘But **Thruuuuusters** —’

‘ **No**. No way in Pit I am letting you in. There’s my answer. I am going to recharge, and turning off my audials, so regardless if you are still out there, I won’t be able to tell. G’night.’

The copter tried calling out to the unwilling shuttle-former a few more times before letting his helm clunk against the closed door. _Fine_. He could take a hint (so he thought). It’s not like there were any hard feelings or anything.

Vortex’s interface components throbbed, hotter at the thought of another mech present to help him with his predicament (or would be, if it wasn’t the shuttle who had just rejected him).

Rejected. That word had a caustic taste. Vortex didn’t like how it felt under his plating, didn’t like how it made his CPU swim with flitting violent thoughts inspired by irritation, or the voice that shimmied its way into his audials telling him he wasn’t worth a frag. He responded promptly with a thought of where he would shove that voice.

So that left him here, rotors quivering, slipping into the in-ground wash unit. It was delightfully hot against his equally heated plating, his own temperature intermingling with the steam rising from between his energon-clogged joints. It’s not as if it was better than a frag with the uptight shuttle (it wasn’t), but it loosened his tightly-strung ligaments, and wires that became tense when he got like this. He retracted the components covering his mouth, and worked his jaw hinges with his pointed digits. The plating beneath his battle mask were etched with hair-line scars, and slightly discolored at the edges of his dermas, where a few lucky fraggers had been able to cut the soft metal-flesh. The slices had healed well enough. It didn’t matter to the rotary; it was war. Appearances only got a mech so far anyhow, might as well work with what he had. Vortex immersed his frame in the hot oil, watching the dried energon dissolve in dark plumes from his armor.

He wasn’t lonely (not at all). Needy, maybe. Yes, needy. If Thrusters was going to be such an aft for a helm glitch, he’d take the mech up on the other idea. He didn’t _need_ the shuttle’s spike anyhow. It could be easily traded out.

_//Ons?//_

There was silence. He knew his leader was hard at work. He had explicitly made it known to the team he would be busy. He gave them the once over ‘ _if you disturb there will be consequences_ ’ look that told of them needing repairs if they didn’t heed the warning. Vortex didn’t fear his leader. In fact, considering the raw power in that mech, the capability to just snap, and cave to his well-known truculent temperament—

Vortex rotor’s quivered. Onslaught was an absolute gem when his anger took over, and always a fallback when the shuttle was an aft—which was now more often than Vortex cared to acknowledge.

 _//Onslaught?//_ He commed again, hoping for all it was worth for a different result. Primus must love him, because it just so happened he got one.

**//What.//**

_//I know you are busy, and I know you told us—//_

_//—and that is precisely why am I telling you now before you go on. No.// ___

_//Ons!//_ Vortex’s response was infused with a whining quality, and from the other end he could hear the distinct exasperation of his hard-at-work commander. He wasn’t going to get the copter off his back that easily.

_//Vortex.//_

_//Please. One breem! One measly, little breem. Give me that and I’ll…uh…//_ The copter paused, trying to conjure up a good enough deal that his leader would cave to his needs (because these were needs—it would take him megacycles to burn this off on his own!). _//I’ll stay out of your way for a whole ten solar cycles!//_

_//No you won’t.//_

_//I can try, Ons! Please!//_

_//Define ‘try’.//_

Vortex became quiet, and didn’t respond. Onslaught wondered if he had given up before the comm line came back to life.

 _//Putting all of my effort forth not to beg Thrusters ‘n you to ‘face me senseless all of the time? Even though Thrusters is useless…//_ the rotary hissed out under his breath. //Uh…avoiding being a complete ‘nuisance’ as you explicitly remark on a daily basis…hmmm…// Onslaught swore he could feel the copter’s brows furrowing all the way across the base. _//Not bringing back prisoners who aren’t necessary to the cause for my own pleasure? I mean, I guess I could go on for a while…//_

_//That’s a start. And I don’t doubt you could, you hellion.//_

Vortex’s rotors perked up from the oil, flinging spray through the air.

_//So you’ll help me?//_

Onslaught swore his frame would rust before he got anything done with Vortex as his subordinate. The mech was necessary to the cause, sure, but it was times like this he wondered what originally inspired his initial interest in the copter. The mech was a full-time responsibility, essentially a youngling trapped in the frame of a young adult mech. Onslaught sighed irritably.

_//Vortex. I never agreed—//_

_//Oh.//_ The silence was unnerving. Onslaught imagined Vortex’s rotors wilting like they did when he just found out there was no spot left for him on a mission. He didn’t like it. _//Heh, well, guess that was a flop. Guess I’ll just take care of it myself. Not like I got another mech willing to face me now…but it’s okay…thanks anyhow, Ons.//_

Alright, who in the right mind made it so that Vortex could sound so utterly, downright miserable? It didn’t sit well, hearing his unyielding, recalcitrant interrogator deflate into something that didn’t sound at all like himself. Screw the deity that gave Onslaught a spark for his most unruly subordinate, but he was falling for the act. The worn out commander sighed, setting a heavy servo on the night’s work that he had just begun.

_//Vortex.//_

_//Yeah, Ons?//_

Was he really going to do this? Was he really going to put off his work to help Vortex out with his interface needs? _Yes. He was._

_//Meet me in my office in half a megacycle.//_

_//Ons. You are Primus chosen. I can’t even begin to—//_ Onslaught could hear his subordinate’s visor darkening to malicious shades of burgundy, his true colors breaching the communication line—and Onslaught had just agreed. Sell his spark to Unicron, and label him a moron, maybe that would save him now. The leader growled.

_//Don’t push it. Just get your aft over here when I asked for it.//_

_//You don’t hafta ask me twice.//_

Of course not. The salacious handful would be at his door right down to the exact nanosecond.

The copter signed off the communication line with his charge renewed. Score one for Vortex, zero for Thrusters who was missing out on a nice piece of willing copter aft that would have been all up in that. But that was beside the point. He missed out, but Vortex had a date set with a mech who could pack a punch, no doubt. They could both get what they wanted, the copter knew from past experience. Vortex shook the oil from his upper rotors, and focused on getting the rest of the grit from in between his seams.

~

Vortex walked down the hall to his leader’s office with a hint of a swing in his hips, his dull armor given a bit of shine by the oil bath, and wax he had meticulously kneaded into the heated metal afterward. His commander liked the polish on his battle-worn plating. It gave the illusion that he actually had the shanix to pay for that kind of slag. Too bad it was just a knock-off version of what he’d usually grab in Cybertron (since none of them could actually acquire that slag anymore). Ons was a funny sort of mech like that, though—never called things out the way they really were. Vortex knew his armor had turned into an unsightly mess of sickly cobalt and dark greys (not that he could do scrap about it). It’s just it used to be such a pretty slate before the war. _Oh well_.

Ons didn’t seem to care when he ‘faced him how his armor looked. His leader was too fragging nice for that, although any other mech would spew trash at a mech like him, the rotary decided.

His leader towered over him as he opened the door, and the rotary loved it. It made energy skitter up his spine, into his seams, and up through his sensitive rotors. He also liked his leader’s servos. They were big, and covered a good amount of space. ( _The shuttle’s do too, but he is not to be mentioned_ Vortex reminded his CPU). Ons liked to grab the copter’s hips, which he often paid special attention to during their “meetings”. Ons also liked to grab the twitching, expressive, ultra-sensitive rotors that pressed right back into his servos. Vortex liked it, too (way too much in fact).

“Ons.” The copter purred, and allowed his EM field to spread into every crevice of the room, projecting his need, and sending it crashing right into Onslaught’s own. It’s too bad his leader didn’t take up lovers, because the way he carried the brunt of his bulk was fragging _sexy_.

“Vortex. Vindictive as ever.”

That voice was liquid ecstasy, inciting flames deep inside Vortex’s belly. He reached up to retract his battle mask, revealing the sneer plastered on his face. “Of course—wouldn’t want to disappoint. The question is, are you true to your word?” He sashayed, defined hips fluidly shifting to follow each lengthy stride, mesmerizing in their wake, over to the desk where he planted his shapely aft. Onslaught definitely did not watch them with growing hunger. Nope. “I’ve been waiting for something to take the edge off since we were heading back, see? But oddly enough no one seems to want me…” the copter frowned, and tried not to reminisce on how that comment seemed to align far too close to reality. He schooled his features though, playing into the act so his leader would follow along.

Onslaught did see. His subordinate, the unholy furnace he was, had an EM field that pulsed, a plague of ‘want’ and hunger for all things that definitely should not pertain to battle, but for the rotary it did.

“You are assuming, as always, Vortex. That I am obliged to satisfy your needs is one Pit of a fantasy you’ve conjured up in that filthy CPU of yours.” Yet, as he spoke, the larger mech closed in on the copter as a predator does its prey, optics feral. “Sitting on my desk, spreading your legs like that.” The commander slammed his servos down hard on either side of Vortex’s thighs, making the ultra-sensitive blades at the copter’s back flutter, and moved close to his audial. “Come to convince me of potential you possess, being the pleasure-mech you are?”

“Only for you, Ons.” The copter’s spark fluctuation picked up tenfold at the proximity. Ons was hot as Pit when he wanted to be, the fragger. The rotary’s glossa peeked out from between his pretty dermas, and ran across his upper lip. It was a habit he’d picked up a while back, and not necessarily one learned from throes of passion. It seemed to miff mechs more than it really should, and pleased the copter immensely when he could get a noteworthy reaction.

His leader scoffed, his vents expelling a gust of heated air over the copter’s midriff. “As _if_.”

Vortex pouted. “Never even gave me a chance, **commander**.”

“Oh? Think you’re worth my time, do you?” One servo began to trail up the edge of Vortex’s right hip connector, aiming to secure a hold on the slim waist. In these servos, the lethal copter was turned to putty (with an attitude, that is). Vortex rolled into the touch seductively, feeling out the situation for himself, and dampening his favor of being a dominant little glitch for a moment to appreciate his leader’s attentions to the fullest. Onslaught liked him pliable. Submissive, with an ounce of spite.

Vortex chuckled giddily, the idea of Onslaught all over him going to his CPU, making him dizzy with lust. “I don’t think— _I know_. Your doubt wounds me, master.”

“Show me then. Talk on goes so far.” The commander growled out lowly. In an instant his battle mask was gone, and his dermas pressed with bruising force against the copter’s. It was rough (the way they both liked it), and Vortex moaned wantonly into the spicy, resonant flavor of Onslaught’s glossa against his own. There were no restrictions that deterred enjoyment—Vortex knew his leader’s inclinations. The mech had made it clear in the past when too much was too much from his boundary-pressing rotary, and some pain was a little detrimental even to Vortex’s accommodating systems. Onslaught wasn’t shy when it came to expressing what he **didn’t** want, and if it took a turn for the worst, Vortex backed down hastily. He might have a fighting spirit, but he wasn’t suicidal. Onslaught, if he was driven to it, wouldn’t hesitate to put the copter in his place.

The large servo at Vortex’s waist squeezed, massaging the acutely sensitive metal there, and the other servo ascended his spine to latch on firmly to one of his rotor blades. Vortex cried out into the steamy kiss, and Onslaught thrust his glossa back into the rotary’s mouth. Vortex’s crimson optic’s dimmed, but he didn’t just sit back. He lifted a servo to his commander’s sculpted jaw, and tugged him in further, adding his own personal touch to their love making. The commander growled in warning, but no repercussion followed. Vortex smirked wickedly, tracing his glossa over Onslaughts upper derma.

Vortex completely disconnected their dermas, scooting back on the surface of the desk, to his leader’s surprised irritation. Onslaught’s dermas twitched down ever so slightly, but Vortex didn’t sense any reason to discontinue his insistent pushing of the limits. He had Ons tied around his clawed-pinky finger, just as long as he didn’t get too cocky in his demeanor. He let his finely shaped legs fall open, carelessly and unabashedly, darkened visor latched onto his leader’s optics as he did so. Blackened, raised scars ascended the copter’s thighs like ingrown vines, etching their own paths in the metal armor, reflecting the mech’s willingness to put himself out on the battlefield. Not all were from scathing blaster fire, Vortex knew, as his tendencies weren’t always as clear-cut and concise as his team thought. His victims were not the only ones to be put under the knife, thanks to the rotary’s mindset that pain contributed to living (and therefore had taken measures to test methods on himself in advance).

He was in no way ashamed of his ghastly, yet artful designs, and it seemed neither was his leader, as he appreciated the supple thighs spread for him. Onslaught’s optics could have burnt a hole straight through the copter’s torso with the intensity that they possessed, scrutinizing every inch of plating on his subordinate’s frame.

Vortex’s goal was not to incite Onslaught’s unholy wrath, so he made his show quick, and effective in it’s conveyance of his willingness to please, running his tactful digits across his chassis, trailing them southward, and dipping down into the inside of his glossy thighs. His digits glided through lubricant that had flooded the panel, seeping into the seams bordering his interface hardware. With the other servo, the copter rubbed the heated panel (which by this point was feeling mighty neglected), and smiled deviously at his leader, who watched with rapt attention. His display ensued, followed with his chassis bending forward until the heated metal pressed to the desk’s surface in a tantalizing portrayal of alert rotors, and a waist that Onslaught was particularly fond of (not that he would admit it). Vortex crawled forward (slunk forward would be more accurate, in Onslaught’s optics). The copter sat back on his haunches when he was close enough for his tastes to his leader, leaving a minuscule amount of space between their chassis. He wouldn’t move forward to touch unless Onslaught gave him explicit directions that he could. Vortex’s servos itched to run up, and down the sturdy armor that made up his commander’s abdomen (and delve into what lie lower down as well). He looked up as well as he could with his burgundy visor, purring lightly.

“May I, _commander_?” He asked, his servos hovering over the armor of Onslaught’s chassis, desiring to touch so bad it hurt.

“Proceed.” Onslaught responded huskily, and immediately, Vortex pulled himself chassis-to-chassis with the mech, rubbing his own feverish plating against his leader’s. His servos explored the expanse of his commander's warming frame, using his claws a little more heavily under the shoulder armor (because Ons like that). He licked his dermas, laving his dark glossa over every biolight in his path of exploration, leaving behind glistening evidence of his arousal. The rumbling gears, and internal mechanisms in that solid chassis told Vortex he was doing something right, and even more so when a servo latched onto his jaw firmly, and brought his face back up to his commander’s deviously grinning dermas, which molded to his own in a fierce kiss.

His spark spun in its casing at the realization that Ons’ fans were high enough to combat his own, and his EM field was thick with lust. He _loved_ when his commander was like this. He like knowing that he could make him like this. He was the deranged, the gruesome, the outcast among all of the mechs he knew—and Onslaught still became fragging hot for _him_.

Servos were all over his frame in an instant, heavily petting, grasping, pulling, and Vortex adored it. Give him attention, and he was a happy copter. There was a click, and he belatedly realized his panel had popped open while he enjoyed being ravaged by his enthusiastic partner.

“Touch yourself. Break it in for me.” Onslaught seemed satisfied as Vortex moaned, and the rotary wasted no time (lest his commander lose patience with him). Onslaught pushed the smaller mech back so that his aft came to rest on the desk—like the big mech owned him—and even though the copter pouted, he complied with the dictator of their meeting. Vortex sneered at the thought, not at all abhorrent in its nature; being owned by Ons had a certain appeal. Vortex’s right servo descended his coolant soaked chassis, and dipped down into the area where armor ceased to exist, and instead sat a sealed spike cover, and lower, a plush valve that had seen neglect like no other. Vortex recalled his rejection from Blast Off earlier on, and thrust his middle and third digit into the flexing passage.

His lower abdomen twitched as his valve immediately sucked the intrusions further in, but not without a sting. Out of use was what his passage was, he thought, panting and he drew his fingers back out, only to shove them right back in. _Yes_ , the copter gasped, his visor locked onto his leader’s searing gaze. Onslaught loomed over him, hungrily watching the valve that he somehow expected to be at least a fraction looser than what it was. The dark ring around Vortex’s digits squeezed tightly, slurping the fingers back in eagerly. Vortex whined, utilizing his other servo to rub at the swollen nub above, which demanded attention at the way it stood out. A rumble culminated in the commander’s chassis as he watched the tantalizing display, considering for once that Vortex under his control was a good thing. It should happen more often, no doubt. Onslaught made a mental note.

Vortex was broken out of his haze as a ‘click’ met his audials. He glanced down to see his commander’s cord gripped firmly in his prominent servo, transfluid beading at the top of the flared head, and wasn’t that a sight he could die happy with? Long, and thick, the spike was large and perfect, and it **should** be stabbing into the copter’s valve right about now—he was more than ready for it! Vortex whined unabashedly, pulling the inside of his valve in quick strokes as his leader fisted that titan of a spike in his large servo…

That was until his motions were stopped by a sturdy grip that he couldn’t break if his life had depended on it. Not with Onslaught staring at him like that. The rotary’s vents caught. “O-Ons…”

“Hush, Vortex.” The leader bit out (almost tenderly for him), and before the copter could flash an expression of hurt, his dermas were parted in bliss. Ons was—but that wasn’t right, Ons _didn’t_ —Vortex moaned out, and clutched at his leader’s shoulders. Onslaught's mouth was on his valve…his leader’s helm was between _his_ thighs, his denta nipping at the swollen lips, his glossa tracing the clenching hole where his own fingers had just been plunged. The shuttle had never done this, but frag it felt like Vortex had been born again. He cried out in ecstasy as Onslaught’s wide glossa licked out his valve canal for all it was worth, plunging deeper and touching nodes Vortex hadn’t known could be touched so gently (but cause such sensations). Liquid heat pooled low in the copter’s abdomen, and his thighs shook; he wondered if it would be okay to touch his leader’s helm…

Vortex was beside himself. “Ha. _Yes_ , yes, YES.”

Ons had wonderful, wonderful servos. Vortex groaned out, panting more quickly, mouth open at the molten heat that accumulated fast and low in his belly as that glossa struck something within him that made his vision white out momentarily. “Yuh-yes, **yes** ,” he choked out, plagued by the sensations, but feeling obliged to tell his commander just how good this felt. “More—please Ons! O-Onslaught!”

Onslaught added his thick digits to the mix, thrust deep into his subordinate, and began strong pulling motions. He sought out especially soft spots along the valve walls, manipulating them with insistence that had the timbre of Vortex’s voice changing drastically. The rotary struggled against the digits and glossa squirming relentlessly inside him, trying to draw the molten heat out of him. He panted choppily, frantically, grasping tactlessly onto his leader who ruthlessly sucked on his bared interface components. Vortex wailed out as lubricants drenched his commander’s lower face as well as the desk beneath.

He had the decency to feel horrified when he realized he had just overloaded excruciatingly messily—and not only that—but into his leader’s unmasked face. _Well frag._

Post overload CPU piecing together the possible consequences, sloppily he formulated his words. “I…sorry…about that…” Vortex swallowed. _Fragging desperate frame…fragging messy valve…_

He was expecting a chagrined leader, and prepared for the servo that would surely cuff one of his sensitive audials—not one that would pick him off the desktop, and situate his numb thighs on his lap, large servos latching onto his rotors like they were a life line.

“Apologizing for doing what I asked of you? That’s new.” Onslaught deducted before positioning his turgid spike (which Vortex eyed hungrily) at the opening of the copter’s sopping valve. The rotary’s back was ramrod straight as his valve widened, swallowing the rod with a squelch, encasing it between the ever accumulating lips in one go (not that his adamant leader really gave him a choice in the matter). This was why the rotary liked Onslaught. Vortex gasped, reveling in feeling so full that it nearly hurt, the spike taking up more than what was recommended for the copter’s valve capacity (but who gave a slag when it felt this good?). He panted, fans roaring, and armor plating shaking along with his quivering rotors as the head of the spike pressed into the furthest point within him.

“Slag yeah… _oh Pit yes_ ,” the copter stretched, glossa lolling out, and helm falling back. Onslaught groaned in sweet satisfaction. His subordinate was a pretty specimen when he wanted to be (that is when he wasn’t wreaking havoc, or parading around in his victim’s bodily fluids). Onslaught gripped those deceivingly plush hips, and squeezed until the metal creaked. A half squeak, half sigh came from the copter’s dermas as he snapped to rapt attention.

“Did I **say** you could look away from your _commander_?”

The rotary’s vents emitted a gust of hot air. “No, Onslaught…” 

“Hmm?”

“Commander.” Vortex said, his vents roaring. “No, Commander.”

“Then _why_ …” Onslaught gripped the smaller mech’s hips harder, and lifted him off of his straining spike, only to punctuate his next words by forcing him back down onto it with a grunt. “…did you do it?” A choked yip exited Vortex’s vocalizer.

“My _AH_ -apologies…hah…” Vortex’s valve contracted over the spike as it reentered the velvety passage, splitting him open thoroughly and oh so perfectly. Onslaught’s lap was slick with lubricant (as such was the fate of anything Vortex was near in this state). “Frag yes!”

“I highly doubt your sincerity.” Another sharp thrust into the searing passage, and Vortex shrieked, clawing at his leader’s shoulders. Onslaught had his lap filled with wiggling, increasingly vocal rotary, and he couldn’t remember what he had been supposed to have been doing before this moment. He’d wait until later to figure it out—his focus was on the fluttering around his shaft, sucking him deeper with every in-thrust. He wondered what it would feel like to thrust deep enough to break through the gestation chambers buried far up in the copter’s frame. He was large enough, long enough by far…he growled, thinking of the copter filled with his transfluid.

“I am… **though** …ah…aha…Ons!” The metal on Vortex’s hips finally caved enough to sport dents that definitely would not pop back on their own accord. Beads of energon appeared where Onslaughts digits pierced the pliable metal as he forced the copter down repeatedly to take his spear of a cord. “M-more, fah- **faster** , please—Ons you’re so fragging good to me! Yes, yes, more, m-make me weak. Make me ache! Ah-I don’t want to walk—mmm without feeling it! Hah!”

Onslaught like the sound of that, as he stabbed his heavy spike in sharp thrusts up into the needy mech. He needed more leverage though. An idea sparked in his lust-crazed CPU.

“I’ll give you more,” he growled out, and before Vortex could complain about the sudden emptiness in his valve, his back plates hit the desk surface, and he was filled to the brim once more. All it took was one swift stab, and Onslaught began the brutal pace once more. The copter attempted to retain some semblance of grip on his leader as the mech continued to slam his cord into his valve, drawing unhindered announcements of pleasure from Vortex. The rotary wrapped his legs around Onslaught's waist, and flicked his blades forward, pleading those big servos to grab at them once more.

“ _Please..._ ” the copter rasped out, knowing full well he was being a needy little glitch, but not giving one single slag. Being familiar with Vortex’s lingo, Onslaught forfeited one servo from the mech’s hips to snag a blade, and pulled with considerable force towards him, punctuating each thrust. They were powerful enough to shunt Vortex’s frame in short sliding motions across the desktop, before he was pulled back onto his commander’s thick cord. The rotary held on as long as he could, but he knew with Ons hitting that spot inside him that made the energon behind his audials sing, he didn’t stand a chance. His leader was well endowed, and that spike threatening to breach his sealed gestational chambers brought something primitive out of Vortex. He whined shrilly, attempting to draw his leader’s spike in further. Something in him said, _Do it already_. Vortex knew his commander well enough to know he wouldn’t.

“Scream for me,” Onslaught commanded close to his subordinate’s audial, plowing into the rotary’s slick valve for all it was worth, groaning out his own euphoria as his overload peaked abruptly.

And the copter did.

Vortex screamed so loud he swore he woke the dead Primes (as well as the shuttle who denied him an interface; too bad for him, ‘cause he found a better one). The copter shuddered through the pleasure-laced explosion, molten heat flooding his systems, and fell abruptly offline.

~

Vortex woke to find himself tucked into the side of something hard, with something cushy, and soft surrounding him. Maybe he was dead. _Hmm._

He opened his bleary optics, and peeked out from the mesh quilt surrounding his frame. He lifted his helm, sitting up only to collide with a solid object. He hissed in discontent, and there was a sigh to back up his stupidity. _Definitely not dead._

“Still tactless as always,” Onslaught’s voice came from above. There was a twinge of satisfaction that Vortex could trace. The rotary peeked around the object that he now recognized as Onslaught’s desk (which he had been fragged on, his CPU helpfully provided).

“How long…?” He asked groggily, his visor dim.

“Two megacycles.” And then, “You will let me work.”

 _There’s the old Ons._ Vortex chuffed, and curled back into his nest of covers. What gave the ruthless Combaticon leader the initiative to bundle him up like a sparkling, and keep him in the same room with him until he woke from stasis evaded the rotary, so he didn’t think too hard about it. His valve was pleasantly sore, and throbbed at the thought of the mech who was the owner of the spike that had made it feel that way. Vortex sighed.

When Onslaught stirred, Vortex’ rotors stiffened and he lifted his helm to regard the mech towering over him. “Ons? I didn’t do nothin’—”

His commander rumbled deep within his chassis, and lifted the rotary from the ground, leaving a chill in the copter’s plating as the blanket was discarded. Vortex thrashed momentarily, his equilibrium fragged, and found the altitude had decreased considerably when he was dragged into his leader’s ample lap, met with something rather heavy prodding at his lower stomach. The copter puffed warm air from his vents, and reached down to grasp the larger mech’s straining spike.

Vortex chuffed, feeling a bit of pride slither into his spark at the realization. Ons was more charged up than he was earlier. He wanted more. _Huh. Figures._


	2. Chapter 2

The rotary sprawled on his abdomen, visor glowing and engaged with the pad in his servos being oh so ill used. Mechs of all shapes and sizes--particularly **large** mechs--sporting spikes the length and girth of Vortex's forearm were posing for him to admire. He liked thick mechs, thin mechs, it didn't really matter as long as he could envision them throwing him over the nearest surface and spiking him good. Needless to say he had been distracted for eons since that solar cycle. He was having issues doing normal tasks which should have come easy to him. His processor wandered effrtlessly back to _He-who-shall-not-be-named_ and the heliformer sent the device soaring through the air. It slammed into the wall next to the entrance, barely missing Blast Off as he entered the suite.

"I'm not even going to ask." The shuttle scoffed, but hesitated to retrieve the shattered screen from the floor. "Wait..." he picked up the pad and held the cracked surface closer to his optics. "The frag? _Large Mechs Big Spikes_...is this one of the med bay's data pads? Again?"

"So what if it is?" The rotary shamelessly shoved his deflating spike back into its housing, slammed his valve cover shut, and sat up straighter. He clicked the battle mask back over his mouth, and cracked his neck as his helm lolled back in carelessness. "Can't I have some entertainment? I mean, you made such a huge deal about my rendezvous with mechs before, I've resorted to finding other means to pass the time." 

"Your _rendezvous_ were putrid and unnecessary." Blast Off grimaced at the rotary. Why did he bother. "Anyhow, that's not the point. You've broken two pads already. What part of we're in a war do you not comprehend? We don't have endless supplies.I swear you were sparked with slag for a processor." The shuttle sighed. It was useless to spout at Vortex. "Get up and do your job. It's way past time and Onslaught will be irritated with us all if the routine check ups aren't complete." 

"Want to do me a favor?" Vortex asked, voice velvety. He smiled under his battle mask, and the shuttle could tell as his visor squinted.

"No." Blast Off replied with a deadpan expression. "Get off your aft and do your part. I don't give a frag if you like it or not, the rest of us don't want to pull your weight." And with that he left.

The rotary got up, cracked his spinal struts loudly, and dragged himself towards the control panels to prepare himself for the outing he was required to complete. He grumbled about the lack of compassion everybot had for him, and chuckled wryly at Blast Off's expression before he had left. A wedge had grown between himself and the shuttle over time, and Vortex didn't exactly like it. He didn't have a choice in the matter though. Now his attempts for interaction were far to none, and his attempts to get Blast Off to frag were more out of desperation than anything. Blast Off had a thing for him stellar cycles ago, and it had been nice. That had been before they had grown apart, and when Blast Off had been more ignorant to his interrogation methods. There was nothing to do about it now. Vortex sneered.

He could hear the clatter of the fragging technomites that they could occasionally spot scuttling in the cracks along the walls. They would clear the way in the presence of any mechs though. He rarely caught sight of them. He hadn't refueled today, and the corner of his vision fritzed with a signal to do so soon. He strode into the command center, and glanced over the spread of buttons, levers, and screens. Like clockwork, he adjusted the levers, pressed the buttons that needed pressing, and searched the screens for strange activity. He yawned behind his mask, and sighed. _Do your part_ he mocked the shuttle in a hoarse, ear splitting tone. _You're disgusting, Vortex._ He recalled Blast Off commenting long ago. It stung to hear it from outsiders, but it dug deep at the time to hear it from the shuttle. He felt like a leech to Blast Off now, a glitch at best. He pestered the shuttle for the attention, but didn't really expect much from it. It was a losing game. He dimmed his optics and retreated from the control room.

Swindle caught him as he left, walking leisurely with Brawl to retrieve energon. Vortex appeared as though he was in rare form today. Aware that the copter was off to complete his scouting, he saw an opportunity for interaction. He smirked.

"Well hello beautiful! Look who's finally doing chores this solar cycle." Swindle broadcast a grin that he'd trained for as long as he could remember. 

"Shut your mouth, Swindle, before I shut it for you." Vortex spat. His rotors stood on end, and his claws itched. Brawl looked down on him condescendingly.

"Don't mess with him Swin'. Come on, we got better things to do." Brawl tried to usher his friend along, but Swindle wasn't having it.

"Naw, B. wait. I wanna talk to him." Swindle squared his shoulders. "Come on Vortex, what d'ya say? You an' me? Energon?"

Vortex hated that glitch. he couldn't believe Onslaught had accepted him back into the gestalt after the fragger literally _sold_ them to an enemy faction. Vortex narrowed his optics.

"You're no smarter than a fragging mechanimal, Swindle. Piss me off on the wrong day, I dare you. No one will be able to find your bits and bobbles no matter how hard they try." The rotary licked his lips behind his mask at the thought, and his spark thrummed. Brawl tensed at that.

"Like the Pit you will. Over my fragging carcass. Quit being a creep," Brawl growled, and waved off the copter with a large servo. Swindle must have been deep in thought about his "bits and bobbles" being misplaced, because he didn't seem to have anything else to say. All that was left was a smarmy expression on his faceplates.

Primus, Vortex hated that mech.

Lucky for them, they had gotten word from Megatron earlier that the Autobots had acquired new recruits, and that they should be on the watch for any suspicious activity. So like a turbohound, Vortex was sent out to scout the premises for strange mechs. He stuck to the skies until he could verify and send word to base that there was no threat from above that he could detect. Soon after he touched down, and begun the trek around their temporary base for any enemy traces.

Vortex shook the filth from the ground from his rotars and chassis, and fell into a quick pace. He couldn't help but think of the amount of time that had passed since he had gotten laid. It had been since that solar cycle....the one where Ons had flattened him to his desk...he'd been sporting dents for solar cycles afterwards.

His equipment throbbed between his thighs, and Vortex wanted to shout. Instead he groaned hoarsely, and strode more quickly.

Looking back, Vortex acknowledged his processor was not all into his scouting. In fact he was absorbed in a waking dream of all of the dirty things that _could_ happen to him if he dare ping Onslaught again. So when he was tackled and thrown into a tumble with his attacker, he was completely stunned. He shouted, and his defense systems fired up instantaneously. When they stopped rolling through the dirt, getting grit trapped in their seams, Vortex lashed out. It was a seeker, not one familiar to him, but an enemy flier nonetheless. He was larger than Vortex, and relied on his strength to keep the rotary pinned.

"Primus fragging..." Vortex spat, kicking, squirming, waiting for his weaponry to come online, and an opening to act. When the seeker adjusted his grip, Vortex's mask retracted, and he bit down on the flier's forearm. **Hard.**

The strange mech howled, and in an instant, he was silenced by the fire of a blaster. He energon coated Vortex, and the rotary watched as his faceless corpse slouched to the ground. Needless to say, Vortex was thoroughly shaken. _That could have ended very badly._ The copter's blaster was still hot and charged, and he vented quickly. His frame quivered ever so slightly. He retracted the weapon only when he could assure himself there were no more mechs waiting to attack him.

~

"Where is Vortex?" Onslaught asked, looking expectantly at Blast Off, who had just sat down to his second refuel of the day. The shuttle shrugged.

"Probably still out scouting. He got started late today because he was distracted by one of the med bay's data pads again. The glitch gets distracted easily. He has sent back negative signals so far."

"He went out _orns_ ago." Onslaught pointed out. "When did he last make contact?" Onslaught asked impatiently.

Before the shuttle could respond, the bang of a door distracted him. Vortex stepped in, spattered in energon, and dragging his pedes. His blades sagged, and he panted from his uncovered lips. He almost got a word out before he promptly collapsed.


End file.
